Soft and delicate were his features, so unlike what I was used to. The way words fell from his lips, the syllables sweetly caressing his tongue before fluttering from his mouth.
I say these words so artistically, but the hard line of truth streaks through them. But… it seemed I was the only one who saw what I saw, and felt what I felt. No one else seemed to think the gracefulness at which he danced through life was something to be admired. His low, swinging voice and tepid nature regarded as an excess of muliebrity, and nothing more.
He was disposable, and overwhelmed by the startling opposition to his beauty, I was swept up to feel the same, and disregarded him thusly.
It was such a typical story, and I forced any thoughts of him away, under the scritch scratch of the pestle scraping the bottom of the mortar. Until there was dust. And in the passing winds, it blew away.
A battlefield; where prospects of any hope long since vanished. The putrid stink of death and decay steams from the ground and sticks like the dirt marring your skin. You wrap yourself in thoughts of faraway places, a thin ratted blanket in the early morning when the silence is thick as the fog that crawls along the ground.
To have someone there, how vital he is, a part of your survival. The blood that seeps from his wounds is your blood, the shallow shaken breaths, and eyes that are black from the tar of war. You wonder if his heart shakes and rattles inside his chest whenever he doesn’t see you after being engulfed in the loud loud loud booming sounds of big machines, the rip of souls being torn away from bodies and slung into the mud, the little pricks of hatred, ignorance, fear, anger, sadness, death death death scrap against your skin like the rugged bark of trees you crawl past in that deep forest.
The soil soaks it up greedily, sings the screams of many men and it echos shrilly in your ear until you feel so numb your thoughts are crawling crawling just like you.
The light always seemed to be there, though he knew it wasn’t.
But it seemed so.
Always a bright spot flickering behind the dark silhouettes of the skinny trunks of the sparse spread of the trees across the street from his bus stop. He would stand and stare at it, completely fixated until the bus would pull up and break his line of vision.
It didn’t interest him at first. Something he could transfix himself to while he emptied his mind from the dull numbness that followed after he left work. That’s it.
When it became more he wasn’t sure. More eager to stand and stare at that little white light than to go home, he rushed from work.
It wasn’t difficult to read people, seeing as he wrote about them all the time.
Damien at least felt he had that power; to look at little things people would do and be able to predict how they would act, what they would say.
It was so easy. Everyone was essentially the same, after all.
Sun streamed in from the window onto the faded wooden floors of the small attic in the pale blue house that was set too far from the road. The placid sounds that existed only within those sweet, sleepy summer months floated in the air, lulling the lone boy lying on the floor close to the precipice of unconsciousness, the rays warming his skin.
Jongsuk rolled to his side, turning towards the window, comforted by the waving leaves of the tall tree outside and the bright blue sky. He like the summer, when he could be alone but not feel lonely; wrapped in the hazy summer days, and the cool summer night breeze caressing his skin, he could easily fall into its embrace and not think about anything else.
He liked that.
That troubling feeling of uncertainty.
It is like trying to hold a fistful of water; for the quickest of moments– but no, no of course not.
So you have to let it freeze over and turn to ice. But then the surface is so very cold, it pricks your skin and once again, you have to let go.
This is not what you wanted, what you imagined.
Close, so close.
All you thought of, your mind saturated in the sickly, sticky sweet fantasies that pressed themselves so firmly against the forefront of your vision, so hard, to blink and have them suddenly vanish made your chest hurt.
Your chest hurt now.
You watch until your eyes burn. The numbness that seeps into your skin comes from inside out, makes you feel as if you are floating.
Vision blurry, cheeks wet.
Perhaps you have passed through a cloud.
The pungent scent of a flowery air freshener permeated the air, but the apartment smelled putrid. It was as if the sharp scent of artificial raspberries accentuated the smell seeping from the walls, from the under the cheap wood floors. The cleanliness of the apartment was like a transparent film that only added to the filth concealed into the grain of the place.